


Invest a Dime

by Zeke Black (istia)



Series: Cross-Border Enforcement Agency [2]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, POV Ezra Standish, POV Outsider, POV Vin Tanner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-24
Updated: 2008-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:14:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istia/pseuds/Zeke%20Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team meets Ezra; Ezra meets the team. <em>Hoo</em>, boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invest a Dime


      
    
       If I should call you up,
       Invest a dime,
       And you say you belong to me
       And ease my mind,
       Imagine how the world could be,
       So very fine,
       So happy together.
    
          --The Turtles, _Happy Together_, 1967

###### Friday, May 25, 2001 | Four Corners, New Mexico

If he hadn't been distracted, Vin would've noticed the alarm inside Chris's front door didn't click when he punched in the code to disarm it. But he was and he didn't, so his first hint of something amiss was a creak in the living room that made him veer in mid-step away from the bedroom and into the main room. He was startled into momentary inaction as he stared at a stranger rising from the Morris chair adjacent to the couch and turning to face him. Even as he registered the man's smile freezing, then fading, Vin's training and instincts took over. He pulled his gun, aimed it in a two-handed grip, planted his feet automatically and focused his gaze in an instant.

"Don't move."

The guy seemed disinclined to do so, but Vin didn't relax. Something about him was nagging at Vin's memory. A recent operation? Someone met in passing somewhere? A mug shot?

"Who are you?"

The man licked his lips. He was outwardly calm, although tension was evident in his straight stance; he stood with his arms at his sides and his hands held a few inches away from his body. Cautious--and apparently familiar with the drill. Wearing only a pair of gray slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt, he had no weapon in evidence. He also looked very much at home. He wasn't even wearing shoes. Crimson socks caught Vin's eyes for a moment before he jerked them back up to the man's face.

"Back up. Against the wall."

"I'm not armed."

The mid-western accent was the trigger. An op, but neither a recent nor a local one....

Last year. The operation in Everett, Washington. They'd nabbed Peter Rex "Cagey" Miller for smuggling a few cases of stolen booze over the border, but the case they compiled against him was for several counts of murder and attempted murder of federal agents. Key evidence was provided by his accountant-turned-informer--

"Dewalt. Jesus, what the hell are you doing here?"

He went close enough to shove the guy around and forward, pressing against his back till Dewalt put his hands on the wall and spread his legs. Dewalt didn't resist. Vin patted him down with one hand and stepped back. He let his gun hand relax at his side, but kept his stance solid and his grip ready to bring the weapon to bear.

"Turn around."

Dewalt turned in a slow, controlled move to face him. Vin's memory having found the right area to access, he was recalling all the pertinent information like clicking tabbed files in his brain one after another.

"You were in Witness Protection. What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I think it would be best if you asked Mr. Larabee that question."

"I'm asking you. What d'you want with Larabee?"

Dewalt's gaze remained steady, but he didn't speak.

"Sit down."

Dewalt moved slowly across the room and sank into the Morris chair.

"I wanna know why the fuck you tracked down Larabee and broke into his house."

He stared into guarded eyes until Dewalt blinked and looked away.

"If you would call Mr. Larabee, I'm sure we could settle this matter to everyone's satisfaction."

Vin looked Dewalt up and down. Details were returning to his memory with the rush of a tsunami, overpowering him with images and feelings he'd put aside once they'd left the job behind. Included was a lingering puzzlement about the tension he'd sensed in Chris on the day of the bust, along with an uncharacteristic preoccupied moodiness Chris had displayed for the next little while. Chris wasn't what anyone would describe as a barrel of laughs on most days, but he usually wore one hell of a big smile at the completion of a bust that netted them the bad guys and got them all home with no damage.

He recalled Chris's quietness afterwards, too, over the following days of tying up the loose ends. When the rest of them had joined the jubilant celebration the Everett unit had hosted after the paperwork was signed and sealed, a party on the night before the Rover unit was heading home, Chris had come along, but he'd faded into the shadows, a somber figure prowling the edges. He'd smiled and quipped with their Everett counterparts when called on, and he'd spent time with a half-cut Lead Agent Herrold, who wanted to share his boozy elation, but Chris had barely drunk anything. He'd excused himself long before any of the rest of them called it a night.

Vin had started to go after him, but Buck had stopped him, had said Chris should probably be left alone. It'd been one of those annoying times when Buck got all mysterious and wouldn't say outright what he was thinking, just gave out advice Vin was free to ignore--except he damned well knew Buck, for all his easygoing ways, was likely to know exactly what was up with Chris and the best way to deal with him, where not to step to cause Chris pain or to anger him into a backlash that'd end up hurting both Chris and them. Buck wouldn't ever come straight out and say what was going on when Chris acted out of the ordinary; Buck never gave any goddamned, surefire indication he knew what the hell was up so Vin could make a reasoned decision. Buck always just said what he thought was best and left it up to Vin to make up his mind whether to heed or ignore the message.

Vin winged it on his instincts, the way he understood Chris on a visceral level, could see the tells of hurting in the tiny tight lines around his eyes and mouth, in the shadowed look in his distant eyes, in the tension in his squared shoulders. Chris had been quiet and withdrawn, even for him, for the first few weeks after they returned from Everett; it was a subtle difference, likely not apparent to anyone who didn't know him well, but Vin couldn't have missed it and Buck had been watchful, too.

But Chris had seemed to get back to his old self again at Christmas. Everything in the lives of all six of them in the unit had been going along smooth and sweet for the past three-and-a-half months.

His eyes drifted back to Dewalt's shoeless feet. What kind of a perp takes off his shoes when he breaks into an agent's house? For that matter, what kind of an asshole wears red socks when he breaks into a house? (Or, shit, any time? Though that was possibly beside the point.) He raised his eyes slowly up the length of Dewalt's trim body. The socks matched a pair of red paisley suspenders. A perp who breaks into an agent's house, takes off his coat and shoes, and relaxes in a chair with--Vin glanced to the coffee table for confirmation--one of Chris's imported Mexican beers. A fucking Goldilocks on their hands.

He looked again at Dewalt's wary, watchful face, which wasn't giving away anything except alertness. He'd never gotten any sense when they investigated Dewalt that the man was dangerous. He looked more carefully now at the broad shoulders and muscular body inside the neat, tailored clothing, noted the tense readiness in the outwardly relaxed stance, and wouldn't be willing to put money on Dewalt's not being able to handle himself physically if need be.

He jerked away from the memory of Dewalt flinging himself at Chris, pushing him out of the path of a bullet.

"Stand up." When Dewalt complied, Vin said, "Turn around."

When Dewalt hesitated, Vin holstered his gun and pushed him around. Dewalt tensed, but didn't protest. Vin pulled Dewalt's arms behind him, took the cuffs from his back pocket, and snapped them on. Buck's leering voice, accompanied by an image of Buck's waggling eyebrows, sounded in his head: "Never leave home without 'em."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered.

He ignored Dewalt's turning head and sideways slide of eyes toward him and pulled Dewalt around to face him again. He stabbed a finger at Dewalt's chest.

"Don't move."

"You're making a--"

"Shut up." He pulled out his phone and flipped it open while stepping back, out of range if Dewalt tried to lunge or kick out at him. He kept his eyes on Dewalt as he hit the second speed-dial on the cell and put it to his ear, listening to it ring.

Damn fucking nuisance. He forced his empty hand, resting against his thigh, to relax, stretching fingers that ached with tension. He badly wanted to hit something or somebody, but that wasn't Dewalt's fault. At least, he didn't think it was, though it was some motherfuck of a coincidence finding Dewalt here today of all days and Vin didn't trust coincidences any more than he did a Goldilocks with red suspenders. But until he knew either way, he had to quell his desire to smash his fist into the trespasser's face just for the sheer satisfaction it would give him.

Buck answered on the third ring. Vin's stomach fizzed with unease; he'd been more than half-hoping Buck would have his phone turned off.

"I'll be late back; have to go into the office and drop off a package."

Buck sounded as on edge as Vin felt. "What kind of package?"

"Remember the Everett case? Cagey Miller's accountant-turned-informant, Percy Dewalt? Went into WP?"

A brief pause, then Buck said, "Yeah, I remember. What about him?"

"He's here."

In the longer pause that followed, he watched Dewalt lick his lips again, then lift his eyes to meet Vin's in a steady gaze. He remembered the unusual, clear green of Dewalt's eyes, but he hadn't remembered how blank those eyes could be, like marbles used in Chinese Checkers.

His uneasiness notched up in concert with his concern over the extended silence on the phone.

He was about to ask what was up when Buck said, "You mean 'here' as in--"

"He's here at Chris's. What the hell d'you think I mean? Broke in, got himself a beer, made himself at home. I'm taking him in."

"No. Look-- Shit. Just stay there. Okay? I'll be out in half an hour. Just wait for me."

"What the hell for?"

"Just wait till I get there, all right? I'm leaving now; I'll see you in thirty."

"Wait! Buck?" He flipped the phone shut with a vicious gesture. "Goddammit."

Dewalt was still staring at him with those eerie, clear, unfathomable eyes. Vin fought down another irrational urge to take out his fury on the guy.

"All right, sit down." He gestured at the Morris chair. "We'll be here for awhile."

"Any chance of getting the cuffs removed?"

"Snowball in hell, pal. Sit."

Dewalt sat. He managed to make his sink into the low chair look graceful even with his arms secured behind his back. He was the neatest perp caught in the act Vin had ever seen. His shirt was still tucked into his pants despite Vin's search of him, and his hair, other than a single wavy bit fallen onto his forehead, was fashion-plate smooth. Dewalt shifted in the chair until he found a position he seemed to find acceptable, then went still. Only his eyes moved, mostly watching Vin. Blank eyes in a smooth, unreadable face. Jesus H. Christ.

Vin paced around the room, never entirely taking his eyes off Dewalt. He kicked at the oak leg of Chris's couch a couple of times until he realized what he was doing and forced himself away. He wanted something in his hands, something to occupy himself with, to fill the time. Anything to fill his mind with other than his futile hamster-in-a-wheel thoughts.

Chris was likely still in surgery. Or maybe in Recovery. They hadn't let Buck in to see Chris yet or Buck's phone would've been turned off. Vin took a breath and dragged his concentration back to the here and now, to the immediate problem in the room with him. He leaned against the stones of the fireplace and stared at Dewalt.

"Why the hell are you here?"

Dewalt's answering look was calmly direct. Hardly typical of criminals caught red-handed in Vin's experience, but he scented an underlying disturbance. He kept in mind Dewalt had successfully fooled Cagey Miller, whose extended reign in the criminal world had been due to his canny ability to sniff out any attempt at deception. Or, at least, according to Dewalt's own version of events, he'd successfully played Miller. The DA's office had bought Dewalt's story. Vin had just helped get the evidence; it was up to the lawyers and courts to determine its validity.

At this moment, he wouldn't trust Dewalt as far as he could kick him--and given the muscles he'd felt inside the fine linen shirt when he'd searched him, he wouldn't bet on that being far despite having a couple of inches on Dewalt.

"Is there a particular reason why you're hesitant to contact Mr. Larabee?"

"What's your business with Larabee?"

A brief, arctic smile touched Dewalt's lips, as though in acknowledgement of their shared skill at misdirection, then was gone as though it had never been, leaving his face again set in its smooth, unreadable lines. Dewalt's head cocked as he continued to gaze at Vin.

"On our very brief previous meeting, I'd gathered the notion you answered to Mr. Larabee's authority. I can't imagine that situation's changed in the past few months. Given the present circumstance of our being in Mr. Larabee's home, there must be a very powerful reason you're not willing to call him."

Dewalt's face and eyes were abruptly no longer merely impassive, but cold and sharp as riven steel. The hackles rose on the back of Vin's neck and he maintained his lounging posture through conscious will alone. His right hand moved closer to the gun in his belt holster at the small of his back, but, otherwise, he stayed as still as Dewalt as they engaged in a staring match.

The urge to hit something rose again in Vin with nauseating force, tingeing his vision with a blood-hued veil. He wanted to hit Dewalt, as the nearest target; as the only target he presently had. He wanted to see that smooth, pale skin mottled with red as crimson as his fucking socks and those stupid suspenders. He wanted to muss up the neat shirt, see it bloody as the T-shirt the medical staff had cut off Chris in the emergency room and put into an evidence bag.

He wanted to hurt this man who had broken into Chris's sanctum as though Dewalt were the same man who had hurt Chris. And he was waiting to be convinced the two events weren't connected.

He blinked his eyes away, disengaging from the hard gaze across the room. He got his breathing under control and pushed away from the fireplace. Dewalt remained as watchfully silent as Vin. Vin kept a visual check on him, but didn't let their stares mesh again. Today wasn't the day some asshole with Bozo's taste in clothes would goad him into crossing the line. Once Buck got here, he'd hand the bastard over to him and head for the hospital. Grab the clothes and toiletries he'd come for, the things Chris would need over the next few days, and just go. If Buck cared so much about this guy, hell, it was no skin off his nose.

Dewalt kept his eyes mostly on him, but he'd notched down the challenge and was back to stony eyes and face. Watchful and wary, but probably too smart to try a move. Vin figured his own keyed-up tension, telegraphed in his restlessness, would alert a man clever enough to outwit Cagey Miller not to make any stupid moves right at this moment.

The crunch of tires on the gravel driveway outside sounded loud in the hollowness. Vin gave a silent sigh of relief and stood up from his lean against the wall behind Dewalt's chair, where he'd settled a quarter of an hour before to watch without being watched. He was ready to hand Buck what he'd wanted and get to where he himself needed to be.

Buck strode into the room, stopped at the end of the couch and stared at Dewalt. His face sagged into weary lines that made him look every one of his thirty-nine years in a way Buck Wilmington rarely did.

"Damn." He ran a hand through his hair and looked at Vin.

"Anything yet?" His voice sounded even gruffer than usual in his own ears.

Buck shook his head. "Not when I left." He looked back at Dewalt, who was regarding him with the mask-like wariness that had strung Vin's nerves unbearably tight.

Vin looked away. Not his problem now. "I'm going to grab some things and go. You wanted to take him in; he's all yours."

"We can't take him in."

Vin turned back from the door to the bedroom hallway. "He broke in here, Buck. What the hell--"

"I doubt he did."

Buck was still looking at Dewalt. Dewalt's eyes narrowed and he frowned as he peered up at Buck. Vin glanced between them. Dewalt was hard to read, but he looked as in the dark as Vin was feeling.

"Was Chris expecting you?"

Vin looked at Buck, but Buck's eyes were steady on Dewalt. Dewalt wet his lips. He didn't answer.

"Why the hell would Chris be expecting him?"

Buck looked at him at last. "Was the lock tampered with, or the alarm?"

He thought back. He hadn't been paying attention, his mind entirely on Chris. He visualized the alarm pad, the door. Nothing had seemed unusual.

Buck gave a little nod, as though to himself. "I think he probably has a key." He turned back to Dewalt. "Is that right?"

Dewalt finally spoke, broken record that he was: "I believe it would be helpful to notify Mr. Larabee of this matter."

Vin's fists clenched. The tension coursing through him only ratcheted up higher when Buck gave a low, breathy laugh. "Hell. You can drop the accent."

Vin caught himself narrowing his eyes and frowning. He gritted his teeth, figuring he was probably mirroring Dewalt.

Buck didn't shift his gaze from Dewalt. "I was in the observation room in Everett when Chris talked to you...Ezra, isn't it?"

Vin darted looks between the two of them. He hadn't thought Dewalt could look stonier than he had.

"What the _fuck_ is going on? I want to know now, Buck."

"His real name's Ezra. Percy Dewalt was a fake. Not sure about his real last name; there seemed to be some confusion on that point." Buck turned to look squarely at Vin. "Chris knew him in Everett before the bust."

"No." He was sure of that; surer of it than anything in life or the universe. Surer of it than the ground under his feet, which had acquired a decided tilt and was making him feel queasy. "There's no fucking way Chris would be mixed up with a scumbag like Miller."

Buck sighed. "I didn't say Miller, Vin. Chris was involved with this guy, and he didn't know about his connection to Miller until the bust." Buck turned again to Dewalt. "Right?"

Dewalt didn't answer. He didn't change expression, but his eyes were thoughtful as he studied Buck.

"I thought it was over when you joined Witness Protection." Buck spoke slowly; he was frowning, too, now. "But Chris knew you were coming today, didn't he?" He paused, but Dewalt still didn't speak. "Where's the key?"

Dewalt was staring steadily at Buck. "How much did you see in Everett?"

Dewalt's mid-Western twang was replaced by a distinct Southern drawl. Vin swallowed, the tamped down fury inside him rising again with a drowning feeling, threatening to overwhelm him.

"I saw it all," Buck said. "The key?"

He didn't think at first Dewalt would answer, but the pause as he looked consideringly at Buck was no more than twenty seconds. When he spoke, his voice was as expressionless as his face. "In my jacket pocket."

"Which would be in the front hall closet, I'd guess." Buck looked at Vin.

Dewalt's jacket was a white linen blazer, like something Sonny Crockett might've run around Miami in. Vin shook his head and dug into the pockets. He pulled a ring with four keys on it from the left pocket; the second key he tried opened the front door deadlock. As he walked back into the living room, the metal teeth of the keys bit into the palm of his hand inside his clenched grip. He tossed the keys onto the coffee table and looked at Dewalt.

"Why the hell would Chris give you a key to his front door?"

As far as he knew, no one other than the five of them had a key to Chris's house and the code for the alarm. Even Chris's twice-monthly maid service required someone to be there to let her in.

Dewalt tilted a look up at him, but didn't speak. He was still seated in the chair, shoulders set and squared, looking at ease despite his uncomfortable position. Vin lunged forward as the day's accumulated helplessness washed him with rage. He grabbed Dewalt by the shirt and hauled him up out of the chair, twisting him around to shove him backwards past the chair until he fetched up against the wall. Dewalt's grunt as his back hit the wall was deep-down satisfying in an angry, mean way that would've appalled Vin at any other time.

"Answer me!"

"Jesus Christ, Vin. Get off him!"

Buck hauled him back, broke his grip on Dewalt and shoved Vin away. He stumbled a few steps to the side, then recovered and spun around to face them, trying to control his breathing and beat back the fury clouding his vision. Buck fished out his own key ring and turned Dewalt to unlock the cuffs. Buck held the cuffs out to Vin, regarding him steadily until Vin took them and shoved them roughly back into the back pocket of his jeans. It gave him time to regain his equilibrium.

"All right. Tell me what the hell's going on."

"I reckon Chris knew he was coming." Buck spread his hands and shrugged. "He didn't break in."

"It doesn't make any fucking sense!"

Buck crossed to the couch and sat on the arm, feet firmly set wide apart. He rubbed his eyes, then vigorously scratched his head, his fingers lost in the thick dark waves. "I told you: Chris was involved with him while we were on the case. I thought it'd ended, but apparently not."

"Ended. What fucking ended? Chris making deals with criminals while we're fucking investigating a case?"

The last words came out at a high, furious pitch. He couldn't sort out at the moment if he was more angry at the insinuation Chris had somehow been involved in something dirty or that Buck was the only one who knew about it. Recognizing the pettiness of his feelings about the last possibility didn't help his mood a jot.

"Jeez, I feel like I'm talking to JD." Buck's voice dripped tired exasperation. "Personal involvement. Nothing to do with Miller or the case. Chris didn't know about Dewalt--" He broke off and blew out a breath. "About Ezra's being in with Miller until the bust went down. Far as I could tell from what I saw between them in the interview room, Ezra didn't know Chris was investigating Miller, either." A muscle jumped in Buck's jaw. "Chris was sleeping with him, Vin. That small enough words for you?"

No. No. No fucking _way_.

Vin whipped his head around to look at the guy, whatever his fucking name was. A corner of his brain noted the shirt he'd mangled had already been smoothed down. The guy was standing rigidly straight, his hands hanging at his sides, but Vin noticed his fingers were restlessly moving, the only indication of uneasiness. Ludicrous to think Chris would ever-- That Chris could be--

Another tabbed file clicked into view in his mind. The name Ezra; there was something about it....

"Ezra Simpson." He glanced at Buck, then back at Dewalt or whoever the fuck. "Chris asked me to investigate an Ezra Simpson, right after the bust. Possible Southern origins." He repeated the information as it filtered into his memory, like reading it from a scrolling page. "Around thirty years old. That was all he knew, he said. He didn't want it mentioned in the main report." The queasiness came back and he swallowed hard. "Nothing came up on the name."

"Yeah. And ain't that just no surprise." Buck studied Dewalt. "What is your real name?"

Vin thought for a moment Dewalt wouldn't answer, but then he gave a small shrug and said, "Standish. Ezra Standish. You're Mr. Wilmington, are you not? And--" he looked at Vin "--Tanner?"

"That's right." Buck stood up. "Chris tell you about us?"

But Standish still had just the one fucking .mp3 on his Personal Jukebox. "Why exactly are you not calling Chris? Where is he?"

"We'll take you to him."

"What?" Vin suspected his objection might not be rational, knew he wasn't exactly thinking straight right now, but he couldn't believe Buck would waive security like that, at this time of all times. For this guy, with his red socks and his sliding accents and names and who the hell knew what else was hinky about him.

"He hasn't done anything wrong, Vin."

"You don't know that! You willing to take a chance he's not involved? Mighty damn strange coincidence, him turning up today of all days, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I think it's a coincidence and sometimes things that happen are just that: fucking weird coincidences."

"You don't make judgments like that without more evidence!"

"We can't arrest him! He hasn't done a damned thing wrong! He has a key to the place that Chris probably gave him. He's probably been here numerous times over the past five months and this ain't no damned special deal to anybody but us! Tell me, Vin, what we should do till we can ask Chris what he wants? What the fuck are we supposed to do with him?"

They were shouting at each other while Standish stared between them, wary and tense. Vin looked at him, unable to stop himself from continually glancing back at him, then flicked his eyes away from the handsome, watchful face. He couldn't believe Chris could--

He battled another surging desire to punch something.

"I'll take responsibility." Buck's voice had modulated to softness.

"Yeah, fine. Your responsibility. I'll meet you there."

He turned away and walked toward the bedroom. Behind him, he could hear Standish's cautious voice.

"Where are we going?"

"Four Corners General."

A pause, then, in the same even voice: "Why?"

"I'll fill you in on the way."

Vin stopped abruptly, then turned back into the living room and through it to the front hall. Standish was slipping his feet into polished dark gray loafers while pulling on his jacket. He and Buck both looked up as Vin paused at the end of the short hall. Vin pinned his eyes on Standish.

"How'd you get out here?"

"I drove."

"Where's your car?"

Buck's head snapped around at Vin's question; dammit, neither of them was thinking clearly today.

"It's in the garage, behind the house."

"Chris never uses the garage...."

Shit. He remembered Chris clearing it out over the New Year's holiday. Vin had asked what he wanted it for while he gave Chris a hand shifting the boxes, lumber, and tools out to a new storage shed Chris'd bought, and Chris had just said, "Might come in useful sometime."

The sense of betrayal engulfed him again. He met Buck's eyes, but he didn't know if Buck had noticed Chris's work on the garage. He supposed it didn't matter; it was just one more way Chris had fucked with them all. For this guy.

Vin turned and walked to the bedroom, forcing his hands to unclench. He heard the front door open and shut, heard Buck's car engine start and the muted sound of the tires outside. He leaned both hands on the dresser, head down. For an interminable time, he wasn't sure he'd have the strength to lift his head again; it felt like a lead ball was chained to his neck, dragging him inexorably down.

He'd thought he knew Chris better than anyone in the world.

When he was finally able to force his head up, he saw a small framed photograph on the dresser. He'd seen it before on the few occasions he'd been in this room, usually to camp out on Chris's floor when the lot of them had stayed over and filled the place. Once they got the extension built--which Chris had finally okayed, to their silent, collective relief--there'd be more room and Chris wouldn't be isolated out here by himself all the time.

Well, that seemed like something of a joke, now, didn't it.

He picked up the framed picture. The sun gleamed on Chris's fair and on Sarah's and Adam's dark hair. Adam looked about three, sitting tucked between his smiling parents. Chris's and Sarah's arms were around each other, their heads tilted together and their other hands clasped in front, making a protective circle around Adam in his father's lap. It must have been taken about five years ago, but Chris looked a decade younger than he did now.

He put the picture down and pushed himself upright. He looked around the room, half afraid he might see something to confirm this business about Standish. Nothing looked changed. The sun streamed in the large corner windows, warming the varied reds and yellows of the Saltillo tiles that paved the floors throughout the house. The Navajo blanket on the bed, the column cactus in a large clay pot, the dresser, the bed, the nightstand, the barred shadow against the white plastered wall from the high back of the Shaker style chair: everything was exactly as Vin remembered. Nothing gone, nothing added.

He lifted a dog-eared book from the nightstand. _The Tightrope Men_ by Desmond Bagley. He thumbed through it; it looked like one of the old adventure stories Chris liked reading. Vin replaced the bookmark--a slim, hammered copper one with a black-and-white enameled ace of spades on it--and put the book down, taking a last look around. Nothing here pointed to anyone other than Chris ever setting foot in the room.

He wasn't sure why that didn't make him feel any easier.

He strode to the closet and pulled the small carry-on case Chris took with him on flights down from the shelf. He opened it on the bed and gathered items from the bedroom and bathroom Chris might need during his hospital stay. He hesitated before opening the drawers in the dresser, then gnashed his teeth--which he really needed to stop doing or he'd be facing a dental bill up the wazoo--and told himself to stop being a fucking sissy. He yanked open the drawer he'd been in once before when Chris had told him where he could find a dry pair of socks to borrow.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but Chris's sock and underwear drawer looked just as you'd expect Chris Larabee's sock and underwear drawer to look: Black socks, gray socks, oatmeal socks. Cotton boxers in plain, solid colors, mostly ranging from pale blue to navy. Once in the drawer, though, he couldn't contain his damned need to know. He scrabbled under the neat piles, not even trying to kid himself he wasn't looking for something that said, in neon lights, _Not Chris_, and not trying to ignore the relief he felt when nothing unexpected turned up. The most lurid thing in the drawer was a pair of pale green boxers that were ordinary enough except for the topless hula dancer with oversized bazookas embroidered on the crotch. He held them up to get a closer look before folding them back into their spot. He hoped Buck had also given Chris some of the macadamia nuts he'd showered on the rest of them after his holiday; at least Chris would've gotten some use out of those. He shut the neatened drawer with a feeling of grim satisfaction.

Not a hint of red anywhere.

He eyed the other five drawers in the low, double dresser. He needed to find a pair of sweatpants and, this time, he had no idea where to look. He also suddenly lost the desire to know what might be behind drawer number two or drawer number three. Fucking hell. He opened the next drawer down, closed it after glimpsing sweaters and moved to the next. T-shirts. Shit. He lifted out a white one, stared at it hanging from his hand, then staggered back to sit blindly on the bed. He held the limp cotton shirt against his chest, bunching it in his fist, shutting his eyes and trying to escape the image of Nathan tearing open Chris's shirt to reveal the white T-shirt beneath blotched in shiny, wet red.

Dammit, Chris.

:::::::

Ezra had had little contact with most of Chris's men during his brief time in custody in Everett, except for a few hours with Jackson and Sanchez, who had interrogated him. He'd gathered the impression from comments Chris had dropped, however, that Buck Wilmington was loquacious, hearty, and irrepressible. If Wilmington himself hadn't confirmed his identity, Ezra would never have guessed this grim man could be the person Chris called his oldest friend.

He'd expected to be filled in on what was happening as they drove, but Wilmington stayed lost in an oppressive silence until Ezra, his heart thumping, asked outright. Wilmington gave him the bare bones: Chris had caught a bullet while they were on a routine meet with a stoolie. He'd taken it in the chest; he was in surgery when Wilmington left the hospital.

Wilmington got on the phone, then, as he drove. Didn't mention the name of the person he was speaking to and didn't say anything that gave Ezra information he didn't already have. Ezra pricked up his ears when Wilmington asked if Chris was out of surgery; he didn't hear a reply, but Wilmington's terse, "Okay," and unchanged expression was all the answer he needed.

He wiped his hand nervously on his pant leg before he caught himself and folded his hands in his lap. As his fingers locked together with a grip that would soon have them aching, he lost himself momentarily in a fierce desire to have Chris's fingers in his grasp, to feel Chris's hand wrapping him round with all of Chris's warmth and strength.

Wilmington broke the silence at last as they slowed to enter the hospital parking lot. "Was Chris expecting you today?"

"Yes. He said--" He paused, momentarily unsure if he should be revealing anything beyond the minimum, but Wilmington's stillness drew the words from him as Tanner's angry restlessness hadn't. Ezra sighed. "He said he expected to be free for the entire Memorial Day weekend."

Wilmington pulled into a parking space and turned off the engine. For a moment, he just sat, staring straight ahead of himself out the windshield with unfocused eyes, then he murmured, in a voice so low Ezra had to strain to hear, "He told us he wanted some time on his own."

With a jerky movement, Wilmington exited the car.

Ezra followed and fell into step, lengthening his stride to keep pace with Wilmington's long legs. Silence accompanied them across the reception lobby, up the elevator to the third floor, and along a wide corridor to a waiting room. The only occupants, two men, looked up at their entrance. He wasn't surprised to recognize Jackson as one of them, and the younger one was familiar from group photos Chris had around the house.

"Buck," Dunne said, in a voice like a sigh. His eyes met Ezra's curiously before Ezra looked away.

Wilmington didn't say anything, just tilted his head, brows raised. Jackson, fiddling with a pen and notebook, shook his head. He turned from Buck to fasten his eyes on Ezra.

"What was all that about with Vin?" In person, Dunne looked even more like an overgrown kid than he did in photos as he peered up at Wilmington from under a fall of glossy dark hair.

Wilmington moved across the room to drop into a chair one removed from the kid and waved a hand at Ezra.

Ezra could feel Dunne's and Jackson's gazes zeroing in on him like heat-seeking Stingers.

"Vin found Mr. Standish here in Chris's house. Vin was going to take him in." He looked at Ezra with hooded eyes. "You might as well sit down, Standish. This is JD Dunne and--" he gestured "--you might remember Nathan Jackson."

"Hi," Dunne said uncertainly.

Ezra nodded at him and chose a chair a couple away from the others, but not so far distant they'd have to raise their voices to talk. Because discussion, he was sure, was going to be unavoidable.

"Standish?" Jackson was frowning at him, the pencil rolling between his long fingers. "I remember you. I'm sure--" He dropped the pencil into his lap and snapped his fingers. "Dewalt. Right? You went into Witness Protection as...Johnston, was it? Jansen?"

Ezra managed to keep his snort too soft for anyone to hear.

Jackson turned to Wilmington. "What was he doing in Chris's house? And why's he here instead of in custody?"

"Dewalt?" Dunne narrowed his eyes. "Was that--?"

"Everett." Jackson snapped the word without shifting his eyes from Wilmington.

"It's a little complicated, Nathan."

"Complicated? What's that mean? What the hell is he doing here, Buck?"

Dunne's dark eyes were wide and startled as he stared at Ezra. "You left Witness Protection and broke into Chris's house? On the day he was shot?"

He twitched. Something about the shocked horror in the youthful voice forced him to respond. "I knew nothing about that."

Jackson made no effort to stifle his own snort. "Yeah, and air traffic control's swamped with pigs today."

Ezra clamped down on the anger his frustration was fueling. Letting rip now was likely only to get him expelled from this room. He had to be here. Whatever the price.

He met Jackson's eyes squarely. "Whatever else you might think of me, Mr. Jackson, you must have realized during our past association that I am not a moron. If I had shot Chris, I'd hardly be making myself at home in his house waiting for one of his team of agents to find me and arrest me. If I had shot him--" He lost control of his voice, appalled to hear its waver in his ear and trying belatedly to cover it with a harsh cough.

He turned his head away, grabbing for control with both hands.

"So...what were you doing there, then?" Dunne ventured the question, but Ezra could feel the demand of it in the tension emanating from Jackson, too.

The silence spread between them all, greasy and uncomfortable as a stagnant pool.

Jackson broke it. "So, I ask again: Why isn't he in custody?"

Ezra glanced up and saw Jackson was staring at Wilmington. Wilmington pursed his lips, but otherwise didn't move. He looked weary, and older than Ezra remembered from his glimpses of him in Everett, the lines on his forehead and around his eyes gouged deeper on his somber face than they'd seemed last year. Wilmington's long legs were stretched out and his hands were clasped across his midsection, but there was no relaxation about him.

Wilmington spoke in a low, inflectionless voice. "He didn't break in; he had a key and the alarm code. And Chris knew he was coming."

"What?" Jackson's hissed whisper was as explosive as a shout would've been.

Dunne's soft voice was the one that got to Ezra, though. "Why would Chris want to see him?"

"Ain't that the question of the day." Tanner's low, gravelly voice was a just whisper louder than his almost silent footsteps on the linoleum floor; it verged on creepy how anyone could walk that quietly in boots on a hard surface.

Tanner dropped into the seat next to Jackson. "Any word?"

Jackson shook his head. "Not yet. It'll probably be another hour at least."

Tanner sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. "Damn." His hand trembled a little as he lowered it.

Ezra shifted his eyes to his own hands and made an effort to unclench his tightly interwoven fingers.

"So, what exactly is going on?" Dunne looked at Wilmington, then Tanner. The kid was soft-spoken, but doggedly persistent; maybe that's how he rated being in a crack unit despite his youth. "You said Dewalt had a key, Buck. Why would Chris give him a key?"

Dunne's eyes slid to Ezra for a moment, then back to Wilmington.

Wilmington gave a long, slow exhale. "I don't know all the ins and outs of it, JD, and Standish there isn't terribly talkative at the moment."

All eyes except Tanner's rested on him for a long moment. Ezra avoided them, staring at the patch of sky visible through the window across the room.

"All I know is--" Wilmington's breath hitched and he audibly swallowed "--Chris knew him personally up in Everett. He knew him before we blew the case open. Chris didn't know he was involved, just--knew him."

"Knew him how?" Jackson frowned at Ezra, then at Wilmington. "What the hell does that mean?"

Wilmington tipped his hands up and out in a little how-should-I-know gesture. "Chris was personally involved with him. Which is pretty much all I know. Okay? I don't know how they met or...what the hell any of it was about." His voice had a bitter note under its surface calm. "And I had no idea Chris was still seeing him. I thought it ended when Standish went into WP."

Dunne was aiming his big, round eyes at Ezra again, and Ezra studiously ignored them.

Dunne turned to Tanner. "Vin? Did you know about all this, too?"

"No." Just the one word, cold and bitten off.

Jackson was shaking his head. "It's screwy. I can't believe Chris--" He pressed his lips together momentarily, then took a breath; when he spoke, his voice was steady. "Why would Chris be friends with somebody he met on a job months ago? We were only up there a few weeks. Even if he met him before he knew Standish was involved with Miller, it--it just doesn't make any sense."

Tanner snorted.

Wilmington glanced at Tanner, then rubbed a hand over his face. "It was a bit more than a friendship, Nathan."

Ezra avoided looking at any of them in the following silence, but the tension washed around him like a fast-rising tide.

"What?" Dunne's voice came out a croak.

Wilmington just sounded tired and impatient. "They were more than friends. Okay? I dunno how it all came about, but Chris met him up there in Everett and got involved with him. I thought it finished when--"

"Wait, just--wait." Jackson held up a hand. "Are you saying Chris slept with him?" His voice rose on the last word.

Ezra felt an insane urge to be huffy at the implied insult, but with most of his energy and all of his emotions focused on Chris in the operating room, the impulse fizzled unborn.

"That's the claim."

Ezra glanced at Tanner, whose eyes were boring a hole in him. Ezra looked away, back to the unchanging rectangle of blue sky.

Jackson's voice was tight. "You knew about this, Buck? You've known all along?"

"Yeah, I found out while we were interviewing Standish."

"So, let me get this straight: Dewalt or Standish or whatever told you? Is that what this amounts to? And you believed him?"

"No, Nathan, for fuck's sake." Wilmington sighed, long and gusty. "Jesus. I saw Chris with him in a restaurant one evening before the case broke. I didn't have any idea who he was with, but Chris looked-- He looked...chummy."

Dunne said excitedly, "That evening at La Cucina!"

Ezra looked at him sharply, frowning. They'd gone to the marina restaurant several times because it was near Chris's apartment and the food and ambience suited them both. The idea that Wilmington and Dunne had both seen them there one night without Chris being aware of them was disturbing. Chris was supposed to keep better note of his surroundings, dammit! He'd relied on Chris's deep-seated training, and his preternatural alertness to what was happening around him, to always be in play and provide a layer of protection for him. That night, at least, it had failed Chris.

If that time had been partly due to Chris's absorption in Ezra--who'd always been intent on _keeping_ Chris's attention on him, to entertain and amuse and occupy him wholly--then did this shooting today have anything to do with Ezra's imminent arrival?

Dammit. No. Chris wasn't stupid enough to let himself be distracted on the job.

He couldn't have been. Damn.

"I didn't recognize you."

He looked up at Dunne's voice to find the large dark eyes looking him over speculatively. Dunne frowned. "You got shot pushing Chris out of the way of a bullet during the bust."

They were all staring at him now, even Tanner. Ezra licked his lips and twitched his eyes away.

Jackson was the first to speak. "It still doesn't mean Chris was, was involved with him. Knew him, okay, had dinner with him maybe."

"I watched Chris with him in the interrogation room after he--" Wilmington broke off with a shake of his head. "I saw them alone together, all right? And then Chris confirmed it."

Ezra waited for him to say more, but Wilmington kept silent. Anger was a low-burning fire in Ezra's gut as he remembered those few minutes with Chris when they'd both thought they'd had privacy; their last moments alone. He got to his feet, unable to stay still, and headed out into the hall.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Wilmington came after him, long legs eating up the space between them. "Where are you going?"

"I need some coffee. I assume there's a cafeteria--" He frowned, remembering the need to stay close. "No, a machine somewhere nearby."

He jumped as Dunne's quiet voice sounded behind him. "I'll get coffee for all of us. Anything else? Something to eat?"

Ezra shook his head and turned to lean his back against the wall beside the waiting room door.

Wilmington hovered at the edge of his peripheral vision after Dunne left. "Look, I know this is difficult for you, but it's hard for us, too. We care about Chris as--"

"I know that." He pushed away from the wall and returned to the room. He had enough feelings of his own clamoring for his attention at the moment without adding theirs to the load.

He paced to the window and stared out at the flat, uninspiring view over rooftops. He narrowed his eyes against the dazzle of a fat yellow sun; it was going to be a gorgeous weekend for the barbecuers and vacationers.

Jackson broke the silence after a good two minutes' respite. "Did you know about Chris and him still going on, Buck?"

"No."

"Vin?"

"Hell, no." Tanner's voice was a low, tight growl.

"I don't understand why Chris would keep it a secret." Jackson paused for a beat. "Unless he's ashamed of it."

Ezra turned around and returned to the chair he'd occupied, game face back in place. Chris's life was the only thing that mattered right now; Chris could deal with his goddamned friends himself when he was better.

Dunne returned with the coffee, which at least occupied Ezra's hands, then Josiah Sanchez turned up. Ezra tuned out Jackson and Dunne's low-voiced conversation with Sanchez, and ignored the fifth pair of eyes that took up studying him. All he needed was a velvet backdrop and a pin stuck through his breastbone to complete his role as a fascinating new specimen for study. He kept the brief surge of acid humor off his face.

Another family came in and settled in the corner nearest the door, three adults and an awkward teenager gathered in a supportive huddle around an elderly man. They talked in low voices, and Chris's men stopped talking entirely.

Except for Dunne, who murmured at one point, "This is so rad."

Ezra could see from the corner of his eye that Dunne was sitting forward, leaning on his knees and shredding his empty coffee cup while one leg jiggled incessantly.

"What the hell is so great about any of this?" Wilmington sounded nonplussed.

"Not Chris being hurt, of course! But this secret life he's been living, hiding an affair that's been going on for months. It's, I don't know, kind of...romantic?"

Tanner jerked to his feet and stalked out, pitching his Styrofoam cup into the garbage can as he went. Ezra closed his eyes and leaned his head back, careful not to thunk it against the wall despite his deep desire to do just that. Repeatedly.

"And they say romance is dead in the postmodern world." Sanchez's deep voice was too even to be called sardonic, but Jackson snorted.

Wilmington sighed. "Some days I wonder about you even more than usual, kid. And that's saying a lot."

"Gee, thanks, Buck. But you know what I mean. You saw Chris that night at the restaurant. He looked happy."

"Maybe that's because it was before he found out Dewalt, or Standish, was up to his eyeballs in illegal activities." Jackson seemed to be getting incrementally more pissed off with each minute that passed.

Just how long had Chris been in surgery now, anyway? Ezra's backside was going numb in the chair and all his muscles were aching from being tensed for too long. He made another effort to relax them even while knowing they'd just knot up again as soon as his mind drifted away.

"Chris wouldn't do anything wrong." Dunne sounded on his way to being as pissed off as Jackson.

"No." Sanchez's calm certainty fell between them like a smothering blanket. "But it's probably best to wait until we can ask Chris himself about all this."

As if on cue, Tanner came back into the room, walking beside a middle-aged woman dressed in green scrubs and a white coat and carrying a clipboard. Ezra stood with the others and hung at the back of the group as Chris's friends flowed around her in a tight, intimate huddle. She glanced around at them, then down at her clipboard.

"Mr. Wilmington?"

"Yes, ma'am, that's me." Wilmington was standing between Sanchez and Dunne, his head bowed to offset the difference between his height and hers; all of them except Dunne were bowed a little toward her like an arrangement of long-stalked lilies. Wilmington indicated the men on either side of him. "We're all Chris's team, and his friends. How is he?"

She smiled. "He's out of surgery, and it went very well. Barring infection, which we'll be keeping a close eye out for, he should make a full recovery. The bullet missed his heart and--"

Ezra lost track of her words as he swayed on his feet, eyes squeezed shut and a roaring in his ears. _It went very well._

_...full recovery._

When he opened his eyes, his pounding heart under control once more, Wilmington's mask of worry had flipped upside down to one of happiness.

"All right, all _right_." Wilmington flashed a quick grin to either side of himself at his friends and heaved a long breath. His voice was rich with warmth: "Thank you, ma'am."

"Can we see him?"

The doctor looked at Dunne, then back to Wilmington. She looked faintly apologetic. "I'm only going to allow one person tonight, and only a short visit. He'll be mostly unaware, anyway. If he's still doing well tomorrow, then I'll authorize more visitors, though only one at a time for the first couple of days until we see how he gets on."

"Okay." Wilmington nodded, intent and focused.

"I'll send a nurse to escort you to the ICU when Mr. Larabee is able to be moved." She nodded at them and left.

Ezra returned to his chair and dropped into it with the shakes of exhaustion. He felt limp and grubby, the residue of fear sweat drying on his skin like a layer of scum. He thought he should probably leave, but-- No. No, he needed to hear first-hand how Chris was from somebody who cared about him personally.

Chris's men, he noticed, when he looked around, were no longer sitting with chairs separating them from each other. They'd gathered in a clump, a group as connected as the one gathered about the elderly man. They looked familial in the way Chris evoked when he mentioned them, as though worry had divided them, but relief brought them together. Even Tanner was with them, sprawled in a chair between Wilmington and Jackson; he looked tired, but abruptly closer in age to Dunne than his previous tight focus and predatory air had suggested.

Ezra was four empty seats away from Dunne, the five of them congregated in the corner while he was near the door. He felt the release of no longer being the focus of their attention added to the light feeling profound relief had brought. He made a conscious effort to relax his taut muscles, starting with his legs and moving up to his shoulders with meditative concentration while, in his head, the echo of "full recovery" played on a loop and lit him up inside.

He was aware of Wilmington and Sanchez stepping out for a few minutes before returning with the scent of fresh air on their clothes; aware, too, of Tanner's brooding gaze occasionally touching on him. Since it was now more like a fly buzzing around his head rather than a swarm of African bees aimed in his direction, he was able to block it out with ease.

When a nurse came in and called Wilmington's name, Ezra stood as Chris's friends surged forward past him.

The nurse smiled at Wilmington when he identified himself. "Mr. Larabee has been moved from Recovery and is doing well, though he's not fully conscious. Dr. Mauritz says you can have five minutes with him."

Instead of moving, Wilmington turned and looked at Ezra. He met Wilmington's steady look with a straight one of his own, and his heart speeded up when Wilmington tilted his head toward the nurse. Never one to miss grabbing an unexpected lucky chance when it presented itself, Ezra circled around the clustered group of men without looking at them and joined the nurse. She smiled with polite detachment and led him down the corridor, Tanner's fierce, low-voiced, "What the _hell_, Buck--" fading behind him as they rounded the corner.

The ICU room was dim-lit and quiet except for the muted swish of a ventilator hooked up to a patient in the other bed. The nurse pulled a curtain between the beds in his peripheral vision; Ezra's eyes were fixed on Chris.

He'd readied himself to see Chris looking fragile and vulnerable, perhaps even faintly unrecognizable: a shell with a familiar face. He wasn't prepared for Chris looking exactly like himself despite his helplessness. Chris's face, even while slackened in the aftermath of anesthetic and trauma, still showed the strong lines his forty-two years of hard living had marked into his features, indelible and unique as a tattoo of Chris's core self branded across his face.

Ezra slid his fingers along Chris's hand lying beside his hip on top of the covers. He frowned at its chill and looked up to where the nurse was doing something with the IV.

"He's cold." He kept his voice soft.

She turned to look at him and gave a reassuring smile. "We have a blanket warming; I'll fetch it." She checked Chris briefly, then left the room.

He did his own proper check of Chris: IV, catheter, oxygen cannula, and what looked like a chest tube snaking out from the side of the gown, plus monitors of various types stuck to different parts of him. A lot of medical paraphernalia, but nothing particularly worrisome. Chris was breathing well on his own, if shallowly--broken ribs, cracked collarbone, dislocated shoulder--and his eyes were moving behind his lids. Chris looked pale in the dim light, but not unnaturally so, considering.

He closed his fingers fully around Chris's lax hand, holding it carefully, but as tightly as he dared. "Be warmer soon," he murmured, bending over the bed. He brushed his free hand over Chris's lank hair, and leaned closer still, inevitable as a compass turning to magnetic north. He strained to catch a hint of Chris's scent under the alien medicinal ones keeping him at bay and ended up with his forehead resting against Chris's. Closing his eyes, he sank into the familiar sense of connection touching Chris always gave him, and finally caught the faint elusive scent he'd somehow come to associate with _home_.

Grounded at last, he gasped a ragged breath and turned his head to murmur into Chris's ear: "You had better be in there working on getting well with rocket speed or I am going to kick your under-fleshed posterior all the way from here to Katmandu."

Chris turned his face a little under him and made a small sound, not quite a whimper, certainly not decisive enough to be called a moan. Ezra pulled back a couple of inches and studied him; was that a tiny smile curling up the corners of his mouth? Trust Chris to smirk even while unconscious. Ezra swallowed and moved up to brush his lips against Chris's temple. "I mean it," he breathed as he pulled back on hearing the nurse enter behind him.

She shot him a quick glance, but was professionally noncommittal as she unfolded the blanket. He helped her spread it over Chris and tucked the hand he was still holding under its protection with a final squeeze. She led him to the door then, murmured, "I'm sorry, that's all for tonight," and shut the door quietly behind him.

Wilmington was leaning against the wall at the corner. Ezra took a breath to center himself, then walked down to join him. Wilmington faded around the corner as he arrived, revealing the other four also there, standing against the wall out of the way. He didn't look at any one of them in particular, just told the group at large his impression of Chris's condition.

"He was cold, but the nurse fetched him an extra blanket," he finished, then winced inwardly at how inane it sounded.

Dunne, though, said, "Good," and even Jackson nodded in apparent approval.

"Why don't we get out of here, stop cluttering up the corridor." Sanchez set off for the elevators as though in no doubt the others would follow.

Ezra let them go, glad to be free of them--until Wilmington stopped and said, "You'll be staying?"

He nodded.

Jackson frowned. "At Chris's?"

"Let's move this outside, people." Sanchez's resonant voice brooked no disagreement, and his eyes gathered Ezra with the others.

Late afternoon shadows sat squat and ovoid under the fruit trees dotting the grassy boulevard strip outside the entrance. Ezra was relieved to see a taxi just letting off some folks and moved toward it.

He nodded vaguely toward the others as he passed them without actually looking at any of them. "Gentlemen."

"You're going to stay at Chris's?" Jackson had the persistence of a mule; another good trait for a federal investigative agent, he supposed, however damned annoying in ordinary life.

"No. I, I just need to gather my things and my car. I'll stay at a hotel."

He nodded farewell, eyes on the taxi, but Wilmington said, "No need for that. I'll drop you at Chris's."

He snapped his eyes to Wilmington, frowning, and caught the incredulous looks Tanner and Jackson were shooting at Wilmington.

"I'll meet you boys at Inez's?" Wilmington waited until each of the others in turn nodded, then led Ezra across the parking lot to his truck.

They made the drive out to the house in the same silence they'd ridden into town. Ezra stared out the side window at the flat landscape passing by. When Wilmington stopped in Chris's driveway, Ezra nodded his thanks and reached for the door handle.

Wilmington cleared his throat. "The nurse said we could probably see Chris tomorrow during regular visiting hours, from two o'clock to eight. We'll be spreading it out, one at a time every hour or so, not to tire him, so you'll probably run into one or more of us."

"All right." He got out of the truck, but held the door, hesitating. "Thank you."

Wilmington met his eyes. "I reckon since Chris is still apparently seeing you, he'd be pretty pissed off if we--" He stumbled to a stop and lifted a hand from the wheel, waving it vaguely before stroking his fingers over his mustache in what was perhaps a habitual nervous gesture; it had that automatic look to it. "No need to move to a hotel tonight. Chris is a tough old dog; I expect he'll be able to tell us soon enough, within a day or so, exactly what he wants done."

Ezra watched him drive away, then let himself into the house, automatically disarming the alarm Tanner had set behind himself. Staying here or at a hotel made no difference to him, and a hotel would be closer to the hospital: But Chris's bedroom and Chris's bed drew him; and the scent of Chris on the pillowcase made the choice moot.

 

###### SATURDAY, MAY 26, 2001 | FOUR CORNERS, NEW MEXICO

After a late night at Inez's, they each arrived at the office at different times during the morning, spending Saturday of the holiday weekend that wasn't going to be any kind of holiday for them finalizing their reports on the shooting. They followed-up leads they'd isolated the day before, making damned certain the attack on Chris was what it'd looked like at first glance, an unstable informant's meth-fueled, one-off moment of crazy, and not due to some bigger hornets' nest they'd inadvertently shaken in one of their recent investigations.

Vin was the first into the office. He turned on the coffee maker and settled at his desk, shying his eyes away from the open door to Chris's empty office. He fired up his computer and logged into the federal database. He set up search parameters on the names "Ezra Standish" and "Ezra Simpson" and sat back broodingly as he waited for any pings to show up.

They'd sat together in a somber group the night before in the most secluded corner of Inez's bar, congregating after each of them had gone home first to shower and eat. They'd spent the evening nursing beers and talking when Buck finally joined them, delayed by ferrying Standish out to Chris's.

Vin was still trying to understand why Buck was supporting Standish, even to the point of telling him it was fine for him to stay in Chris's house. Why the hell was Buck bending over backwards to accommodate Standish when it was plain as day Buck was mad and feeling as betrayed as the rest of them at Chris's leaving him out of the loop?

Vin had come to terms with it himself during the past sleepless night. Hell, it was Chris's life, he didn't need JD or Josiah to remind him of that. He had a few private things about himself he hadn't shared with the others....

Except he had with Chris.

Chris still had a right to his own private life, dammit, that went without saying. Though Vin had thought Buck at least would've known the lay of the land, given their old friendship that predated the formation of the team and Vin's own meeting with Chris by a good ten years. Chris and Buck had been buddies in college; fuck, Buck had known Chris even longer than Chris's wife had, and their friendship had weathered pretty much every emotional storm there was.

But Buck had made it clear last night he only knew about Chris having been involved with Standish up in Everett because he'd sneaked around behind Chris's back. Chris hadn't revealed anything about it to Buck any more than to Vin or any of them.

He smiled tiredly as he took his first sip of coffee, thinking about how intent each of them'd been last night on making sure they weren't alone in being unaware of what was happening in Chris's life. Of apparently goddamned important things happening in Chris's life.

JD and Josiah seemed most calm about the revelation of Chris's secret life; in JD's case, even outright happy. Vin had a feeling Buck was heading pretty rapidly in that direction, too: That the thing that mattered most about this situation to both Buck and JD was Chris being happy. Josiah didn't tend to meddle in other folks' lives much, unless directly asked, but he'd shrugged and said there must be more to Standish than showed for Chris to have been seeing him all this time. Even Nathan had stopped being overly suspicious of Standish once the worry about Chris's condition eased after the surgery. Nathan was unlikely to just accept Standish on surface appearance without doing some probing himself, but he'd accept Chris's decree on it all once Chris was up to telling them what was what.

Vin had seemed to be the only one still angry and suspicious when they'd finally split up and gone home the previous night. The startling revelation that middle-aged Chris was in a gay relationship wasn't what bothered him, or even that Buck seemed to know about that side of Chris, too, though he'd waved it off with, "It was a long time ago." What "it" was, Buck hadn't specified, and, honestly, none of them had really wanted to know all the details except maybe JD, and Josiah had squashed his bright-eyed probing.

Vin was still trying to wrap his mind around the idea of Chris not being totally straight, but it didn't mean a destruction of anything, just a mental adjustment to the picture he'd made of Chris in his head. Not a topic he and Chris had ever discussed; hell, it wasn't the type of thing he'd ever look to have a conversation about with anybody. He'd assumed Chris was straight because he'd been married and Vin knew he'd dated some woman called Ella years ago. Even now, Chris occasionally flirted with Mary Travis over at the Clarion newspaper when their paths crossed. He thought Chris had escorted her to a few events, too, and Chris seemed fond of her little boy. Even took him fishing sometimes, so it was easy to assume Chris was maybe seeing Mary occasionally.

But learning Chris was bisexual wasn't a big deal once he'd got over the initial surprise. What had startled Vin wasn't what Chris was, but discovering he hadn't had a glimmer of an idea about a crucial part of Chris's life when he thought he'd known Chris pretty damned well.

It also wasn't a big deal that Chris had kept Standish a major secret, actively going out of his way to hide Standish's role in his life and their relationship from Vin and the rest of the team, including Buck. He wasn't even all that put-out that Chris had lied repeatedly to keep them away when Standish was coming to stay with him; like this weekend, Chris telling them he was going to do some work around his place and enjoy the downtime on his own. They all respected each other's need for space, and Chris had a right to his.

Vin could come to terms easily enough with everything Chris chose to do in his life, once he'd got the clue and made the mental adjustments.

The damned big deal was Standish himself.

He had no trouble adjusting his thinking to imagining Chris with a guy--but Standish? What the fuck could the attraction be in a slick gambler with a shady past full of deceits a mile long and fake identities on top of fake identities, as they'd found out in Everett? As _Chris_, for fuck's sake, had found out in Everett to his own apparent shock, according to Buck's guarded account.

Vin had spent a good bit of last night after getting home from the bar reading over the Everett reports and reconstructing his memories of the events with the new info about Chris's involvement with Standish. Some barely remembered incidents had gained new currency, such as the memory of Chris's studied casualness when he'd asked Vin to do a prelim on an Ezra Simpson, which Vin reckoned must be another of Standish's aliases. Or, for all he knew, Standish's real fucking name.

Did Chris even know the full truth of who or what Standish was?

Chris wasn't a fool; hell, no. But Chris had apparently been duped once in a relationship with that Ella Gaines that went sour, the details of which Vin didn't know, though he was sure Buck did. He was also damned sure Buck wouldn't share more than the glimpse of that time he'd already given the rest of them, so Vin wasn't likely to learn more.

Buck seemed ready to trust Standish. Or was he trusting Chris's level head? Trusting that Chris knew what he was doing this time; maybe trusting Chris had learned from the Ella affair, then learned even more about feelings and what was true through his years with his wife.

If Standish made Chris happy-- Well. He could live with that. At this moment, he just couldn't see what there was about a gambler and con man with expensive clothes and gaudy tastes, right down to the red socks he flaunted like a baboon's butt, that would appeal to the Chris Larabee he knew.

Or, it seemed, the Chris Larabee he'd reckoned he knew.

Vin glanced down at the paper airplane he'd been folding while staring into space, keeping his restless hands mindlessly occupied. With a burst of furious energy, he flung it across the room with more power than needed and watched it smack into the wall above the garbage can, then drop like a stone. At least it reached its destination.

"Jeez, Vin, don't know your own strength, huh?" JD bounced into the room looking like a meadow full of daisies to Vin's ten miles of bad road.

But JD also brought donuts, and the others straggled in, one after another, and they settled into their own circle of work within the deserted office building.

They took turns going to the hospital; five of them spread over six hours of visiting time. They always staggered it when one of them was hurt so he wasn't left alone during the time they were allowed in. Nathan went first, as always; he needed to check on things for his own sake as soon as possible, and the rest of them needed Nathan to translate the complete rundown on Chris's condition before they saw him.

Nathan came back after an hour-and-a-quarter reporting Standish was already in Chris's room when Nathan arrived five minutes after the start of visiting hours. JD opted to go next, but returned a half-hour later saying Chris was sleeping and Standish was still there.

"Why didn't you stay longer?"

JD looked at him and shrugged. "He was asleep, and I thought Standish would probably like some time with him. He went out into the hall when I arrived and just kind of, you know, hung out there until I left."

JD turned to look at Nathan, who pursed his lips, then nodded. "Yeah, same when I was there."

Vin grabbed his jacket and pulled it on. He ignored JD's frown, Buck's watchful look, and Josiah's head tilt and ruminative stare. Vin answered Nathan's wry smile with a brief lift of his eyebrows and left.

Standish had somehow or other scrounged up a comfortable, padded chair for himself beside Chris's bed. He was seated there, jacket off, reading a book with a cup of coffee close to hand on the bedside cabinet. His left leg was lifted and bent, the ankle resting on his right knee. Eyes on his book, right forefinger rubbing his lower lip, left hand closed loosely around his calf just above his ankle, he gave the impression of being completely at home, and settled in for the long haul. Vin sneaked a look, craning his head to the side for a clear view of the sock visible between Standish's black leather shoe and the cuff of his razor-pleated charcoal slacks: A black sock, plain without a tinge of color, though it molded smooth as silk over his ankle bone.

Standish's entire look today was muted gray, white, and black, including a dark gray vest with a subtle stripe that gleamed silvery-pale in the light washing over his shoulder from the window in Chris's private room. Maybe he saved his clown attire for when Chris was well, though Vin still couldn't figure his way through the puzzle of Chris's finding someone with Standish's tastes appealing in the first place. What the hell could this peacock with a dubious past--and probably equally shady present--offer Chris that would hold his attention for all these months?

During the long night, he'd got himself used to the notion of Chris having a flash-in-the-pan affair with Standish last year, but damned if he could connect the dots between _Chris_ and _Standish_ and _long-term_.

Standish's head snapped up at Vin's movement and they both froze momentarily, eyes pinning each other in place. Standish's face went from relaxed to expressionless mask in a heartbeat as he registered Vin's presence, and Vin marveled at Standish's control even as he schooled his own face into impassive lines. He noted the subtle tension that straightened Standish's surprisingly broad shoulders as he closed his book and stood. Standish picked up his coffee mug, gave Chris a quick but intent and searching look, then walked around the bed to pause beside Vin.

Standish's accented voice was pitched low: "He was awake and lucid about twenty minutes ago, shortly after Mr. Dunne left. He didn't stay awake for long, but he seemed fully aware of where he is, and why."

Vin glanced at Chris, then back at Standish in time to see his back as he moved to the door. Standish walked briskly into the corridor and turned right with the air of a man who knew exactly where he was headed. The hindpart of Vin's brain noted Standish's expensive shoes were quiet on the hard floor, not a click of heel or sole to disturb the silence in Chris's room.

Vin breathed in and stepped to the bed. Chris was lying on his back, his head turned toward the left where Standish's purloined chair was. Vin walked around, assuring himself Chris was well covered, his hands warm, his breathing deep and easy. He had the usual hospital crap attached to him, but nothing unexpected or ominous, not even a nasal cannula; coupling his visual survey with Nathan's reassuring report removed the last specks of Vin's fear.

He sank down into the comfy chair and glanced around, noticing a leather briefcase on the usual hard plastic chair found in these rooms, which had been pushed out of the way against the wall. A black jacket, presumably Standish's, lay folded neatly across the briefcase and draped over the arm of the chair.

Vin checked the bedside cabinet, but the only non-hospital thing on it was one of the small, bandaged bears from the gift shop. He grinned as he picked it up; Nathan never missed a chance to add to their individual collections of these little guys, simultaneously giving money to the Children's Hospital fund. This one had a polar bear's white and gray fur and bandaids crisscrossed on paw and head with little red and blue hearts on them. Vin set it back down, moving its jointed legs to arrange it on the cabinet where Chris would be able to see it.

He leaned back in the chair, elbow on the arm with his mouth resting against his fist as he studied Chris's face. Chris looked too damned pale, but peaceful, though the lines between his brows were etched deep. He was on the good meds at the moment, but he'd be in some serious pain for awhile; his recovery during the first couple of weeks was going to be a bitch. Chris wasn't the easiest of them to handle when he was dependent on anyone else for help, but they'd bull their way through, arrange their usual schedule between them--

Unless Standish was going to stick around. Vin tensed, sitting up in the chair, then sighed a long, silent breath as he forced himself to relax again. He fiddled with the hem of the pale blue blanket sticking through the bed rails, restlessly rubbing the fabric between his fingers before letting go and tucking it in. Standish might need to leave after the holiday on Monday; might even have a job to get back to, if he worked like normal people. Under whatever name he was presently using, since it wasn't fucking Standish, Simpson, Dewalt or Johnson.

When Chris stirred a quarter hour later, Vin stood and leaned over the bed, watching as Chris's eyes slitted open. Chris blinked, frowning, as he slowly and carefully shifted his position, a grimace flashing across his face.

"Ezshra?"

Vin kept his voice calm and even. "No, Chris, it's me, Vin. Want some ice chips?"

Chris pulled a hand from beneath the covers to rub his forehead as he nodded. Vin spooned up some of the chips sitting in a glass for him, then watched Chris settle back with his eyes closed, wetting his lips with the moisture as they melted in his mouth. When Chris opened his eyes again, he still squinted, but looked more alert.

"What time's it?"

Vin checked his watch. "Almost four-thirty. Saturday afternoon. You're doing good; Nathan said you should be able to get outta here soon. They didn't even keep you in the ICU longer than overnight."

Chris gave a scant nod, eyes drifting toward shut until he pulled them back open to slits, frowning. "Sat'day. Ezra's here." He turned his head to look around the small room.

"Yeah, he's here. He just stepped outside for a minute." Vin hesitated, then added, "You remember him being here earlier, when you woke up?"

Chris lost the battle with his eyelids, but his mouth quirked upwards a little; funny how such a tiny movement could alter the entire look of his face. "'member him saying...kick my ass."

Chris's hint of a smile faded and he blinked himself fully awake again. His eyes were narrowed against the light as he looked up at Vin, but bright and compelling with all of Chris's formidable intensity. "All right?"

Vin swallowed a stab of pain. "Yeah, Chris, everything's fine. The team's all fine, and we all--" he bit his lip and firmed his voice "--we've all met Ezra, we know about him, and everything's okay. Buck told Ezra to stay at your place. There's nothing to worry about."

Chris was drugged to the gills and just a day away from surgery, but he searched Vin's face with a sharp, clear look. After a few seconds, he nodded and sank back into the pillows. His voice was a breath of released pressure: "All right, then."

Chris's weary face showed every one of his forty-plus years, which Vin expected; but he hadn't expected the relief, and it hurt to see Chris look like that, like there was an enemy in the room, when only Vin was there. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and looked down at Chris resting quiet and trusting.

"You gonna be awake for awhile there, pard?"

A smile ghosted over Chris's face. "Maybe." He didn't open his eyes.

"Do you want me to get him? Get Standish?"

Chris was still and silent long enough for Vin to think he might not answer, but then Chris gave one brief, curt nod.

Vin put a hand down and squeezed Chris's forearm through the blanket. "Okay. Buck and Josiah'll be in to see you later, and we'll all be back tomorrow. Take care, pard."

He found Standish sitting on one of the plastic chairs along the corridor near the nurses' station, reading his book. He looked up at Vin's approach.

Vin hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "He's awake; wants to see you."

Standish stood immediately and fell into step with him. At the door to Chris's room, Standish paused when Vin turned away. He glanced at Standish, who raised his eyebrows. Vin turned to face him fully.

"Buck and Josiah'll be along later, but--" He frowned, studying Standish's smooth, guarded face, pretty and showy as his fancy red socks and hiding mysteries Vin still didn't trust. But Chris had known Standish a year, gaudy fucking socks, fake names, and all.

Vin trusted Chris implicitly with his life, no doubt ever about that. Trusting Chris when it was Chris's own well-being at stake, though--well, that was a whole lot harder.

He just didn't have it the hell in him to refuse on the rare occasions when Chris asked for something.

"He wants you." He could hear the rasp of his own voice, flat and clipped.

Standish's eyes were steady and direct as they studied him, but still clear as fucking swamp water. Vin paused to scrutinize him in return, wondering despite himself if Standish would give anything away this time. But when Standish gave a nod as brusque as Chris's had been and turned away into the room, he was the same fucking blank Ken doll he'd been all along.

Vin snorted and headed for the elevator. He trusted Chris, and he trusted Chris to know Standish wouldn't hurt Chris himself, at least physically.

Other than that, far as he was concerned, the jury was still the hell out.


End file.
